The Art of Sacrifice in Chess
by Holdur
Summary: When Gideon leaves, Reid doesn't give up playing chess. Quite the opposite.


**The Art of Sacrifice in Chess**

FRC/G

Spoilers: Set between_ Scared to Death _and _Children of the Dark_, brief references to _Revelations_ and _Jones_. Based entirely off a line from _The Uncanny Valley_.

Notes: While I read a lot about chess for this story, I don't actually play the game, so if I made any mistakes please let me know. Also, the title _The Art of Sacrifice in Chess_ is the title of a real book, written by Rudolf Spielmann.

-

For life is a kind of Chess, in which we have often points to gain, and competitors or adversaries to contend with, and in which there is a vast variety of good and ill events, that are, in some degree, the effect of prudence, or the want of it.

– Benjamin Franklin

**Day One:**

Reid walks into the office with a cup of coffee in one hand and a chessboard in the other. His eyes are on the ground and from where Derek is sitting with his feet on his desk, it looks like he's muttering under his breath. He doesn't slow down on his way over, not even when he passes Garcia on her way out and she stops, presumably with something to say. Instead, he waves his coffee at her and keeps moving.

Derek drops his feet to the ground. If Reid is here, it means it's time to work. Reid flops into his chair like a rock into water, gulps at his coffee and starts setting up the chessboard for a game. He doesn't talk and doesn't ask anyone to play, but Derek doesn't take any more notice of it than when Prentiss lets out a hissed curse and slashes her pen across her paper.

It's paperwork day at the BAU and Derek has more files on the edge of his desk than he'd like. Hotch is back, but Gideon isn't, which means they're about to be swamped and Derek wants to be ready. Reid goes through paperwork at twice the normal rate, so it isn't too unusual to see him playing on paperwork days. Elle used to slip him her files when he wasn't looking, but Derek never did. It's part of the job and it will never be said that Derek Morgan didn't pull his own weight.

Derek spends the day with his head down, the quiet broken only by the click of the chessmen on the board and the scratch of pen on paper. It's the sort of day he wishes happened more often: quiet, uneventful and productive.

**Day Three:**

Emily sees a pattern emerging and it isn't one she likes. When Reid sits down and sets up the chessboard, Emily knows that Morgan sees it too because he frowns and says "Hey kid, you want to play?" Reid shakes his head. Morgan blinks, surprised.

"Really?" he says, "I don't think you've ever passed up a chance to beat me at something." Reid looks up long enough to glare.

"Today I'm playing for intellect, not hilarity," he says.

It doesn't take a profiler to take the hint. Morgan lets out a frustrated sigh and sits back down at his desk, openly watching Reid across the empty space. With their desks sharing an edge, Emily can afford to be a little more inconspicuous. She tilts a file off the desk to read it and watches Reid over the top.

Reid is playing himself without pause, left hand for black, right hand for white. It's difficult to follow for an experienced player and nearly impossible to believe for someone who doesn't know the game.

Emily does know the game. She grew up with a father who sat with her after dinner over the board whether she wanted to or not, saying "Now Emily, that was a terrible waste of a pawn. And now I take your bishop and have checkmate in three. Try again," until she was old enough to run up to her room and climb out the window to where her friends waited, where she didn't have to fail and try again and fail again.

As she watches one game end and another one start she sees that Reid isn't playing to win, lose or think. He's playing for the moves.

Emily stands up and strolls over to lean against Morgan's desk.

"Coffee?" she asks, and adds enough glare so Morgan knows to follow her, whether he needs the caffeine or not. When they get there, someone has made a fresh pot and Emily is grateful, even though she didn't think she wanted any.

"Do you know what he's doing?" she asks as she pours her coffee. She tries for conversational, but she knows it comes out worried.

"Yeah, he's playing chess," Morgan says, then frowns and amends: "A lot of chess." Emily isn't surprised that he doesn't know. Morgan didn't grow up playing the game. When Morgan plays Reid at chess, it's through distraction; Morgan distracts Reid so Emily can win.

"He's not just playing chess," Emily says, "He's playing through every move possible."

Morgan might not play the game, but part of working with Reid is walking out of a room knowing more than when you went in. The way Gideon and Reid played, discussed and applied chess means that Morgan knows something about the statistics involved.

"Isn't that supposed to be impossible?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says, "But it's Reid."

"Even if it is," Morgan adds, "I'm betting it takes more than three days."

**Day Five:**

Penelope thinks something might be going on, but she can't say for sure. It's hard to tell when all she has is tone of voice and four hours of sleep. It's midnight at Quantico, but only nine in Portland, Oregon and she's still in her office, trying to stay awake. She hates when the team is on the west coast. She gets all of the jetlag and none of the travel.

The phone rings. She jabs at it with her pen.

"Queen of all that is, how can you help me today?"

"Hey hot stuff," Morgan says, "Hotch cut us loose a couple minutes ago. I'm here to tell you to get yourself to bed." In the background, she can hear Emily and JJ talking over some truly horrific easy listening. The team must already be at the hotel.

"I will if you join me," she says.

"Only if you—" Morgan cuts off suddenly. Penelope sits straight, alert to the sudden potential danger. She's used to half finished sentences and they never mean anything good.

"Reid, you aren't serious," Morgan says. His voice is slightly faint, like he's stopped talking into the phone. Even with the less than ideal connection, Penelope recognizes his tone. It's the low, gentle one he pulls out for children and the ones who are too scared and confused to talk. It says _I'm not going to hurt you, just listen_.

"What?" she asks, "What is it? Derek? Reid?"

"I'm going to call you back in five minutes, promise," Morgan says and hangs up on her before she can answer.

It's not the longest five minutes of her life, but it's pretty damn close. She spends it playing a ruthless game of Tetris and plotting revenge for the years Morgan is taking off her life. When he calls back, she leaves off the intricate plot involving two types of rope and at least one dentist and settles on Morgan buying the drinks for the foreseeable future.

"Spill. What's going on?" she says before he can get a word in.

"I don't know," he says, "Reid's playing chess." Some of the fear and worry of the last five minutes fades, replaced by indignation. She needs to have a serious talk with Morgan about what it's like being on the other end of the phone.

"That's it? Reid's always playing chess."

"Yeah," Morgan says. He's sounds hesitant, like he has something to add but isn't sure he wants to tell her. "But I think he's trading chess for sleep."

"But he's okay? I mean, he's working the case, right?" she asks. What she wants to ask is _he hasn't missed any planes recently, has he?_ but she knows that's still a sore subject and she can't quite bring herself to say it.

"Yeah, he's on the case," Morgan says. Penelope lets a moment of silence stretch. The answer to this seems obvious to her, but apparently Morgan isn't catching on.

"Well," she says, "Then maybe you should let him play."

"Excuse me?"

"Think about it, peaches," she cuts in quickly. Morgan's sounding deliciously incredulous, the worry from before is gone and she's about ten minutes away from her bed. "Either he's in trouble and you need to tell Hotch, or he isn't and you should let him play. It isn't interfering with the case so—"

"He's a big boy and I should leave him alone," Morgan interrupts.

"At least for now," Penelope says.

**Day Seven, 5:05 pm:**

JJ had to learn to love the jet. It's not that she's afraid of flying. It's that she grew up in small town Pennsylvania, where bikes got you there with fewer potholes and the car was for the summer trip to visit her aunt in Ohio. Sometimes, halfway through the flight, she just wants to feel the ground under her feet.

She's sitting with her hands in her lap, letting her mind wander back to when her feet were pounding the soccer field and trying not to think about the man they just caught and how he liked young blond girls. She curls her toes in her shoes and wishes she could let herself take them off. On her left, leaning up against the side of the plane, Reid is at least one shoe down, his bare left foot crossed over his right knee.

It's a common sight by now, after three days of close quarters. He's playing chess—has been since before the plane took off. It isn't the quick, two handed playing from the downtime during the case. It's one handed, a little slow and sporadic. His other hand is digging fingers into the sole of his left foot. Every so often, he pauses his game to sweep two thumbs across the arch of his foot in slow circles. Every time he does, JJ feels a little sick and tries not to think about dogs.

Morgan slides into the seat across from Reid, leaning his elbows on the table.

"Reid, what the hell is going on, man?" Morgan asks.

He keeps his voice low and JJ is pretty sure that the only one who can hear them is Emily, who casually turns a page in her book and tilts her head slightly in their direction.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Reid says, his eyes on the board, "There isn't anything going on."

"Yeah, right," Morgan says, and grabs the piece Reid is reaching for.

Reid's reaction is immediate and unexpected. He lunges across the table. Morgan jerks back into his seat, surprised. Reid's grabbing at his hands, but Morgan is holding them out of reach. A few pieces get knocked off the chessboard. JJ struggles to catch them before they roll off the table with one hand and pull Reid back into his seat with the other.

Hotch looks up. The moment he does, Emily is out of her seat, sliding in next to Morgan. She takes Reid's hands, gently pushing them back over to his side of the table. Reid deflates. One moment he's practically vibrating in anger, the next he's collapsed back into his seat. JJ keeps her hand on his shoulder. She's trying to figure out what just happened, trying to think of what to say to smooth over the situation because that's her job. Instead she returns the few runaway pieces she caught to their proper places on the board. She wants to say _see, no harm done_, but Emily is already talking.

"It's not possible, Reid," she says. He shakes his head, stubborn.

"It is," he says, "It's not infinite. Not like everyone thinks."

"But there isn't enough time and you need to sleep," Morgan says. The anger is back in an instant. JJ can feel it in the tenseness under her palm and the way Reid crosses his arms to hide the fact that his hands have curled themselves into fists.

"What I _need_," he says, "Is my knight back." JJ waits for the next move and knows that it won't be coming. Both Morgan and Emily know how to dig in their heels and Reid can outmatch anyone in patience. Someone needs to give and no one wants to be the one to do so, which means the next move falls to JJ.

She reaches across the table and plucks the piece from where Morgan is rolling it between his fingers. He frowns, but doesn't try to resist. She puts it back on the board, where it's about to sacrifice itself for the safety of the queen.

**Day Seven, 11:43 pm:**

Aaron isn't yet good at going home to an empty house, so he stays behind after his team is long gone and all the desks are empty. Tonight he has extra papers on his desk—a notice of resignation, an extra report for Strauss and notice of his reinstatement waiting on top of the standard case report—and enough time to think about Gideon and Haley and whether he has failed them both.

There's a noise outside, soft footsteps on the stairs and past his office. He stands and moves quietly to the door. The risk of danger at the BAU office is minimal, but instinct is instinct. His hand hovers near his gun. It's gotten him into trouble more than once, but it's a habit he doesn't plan on breaking.

Outside in the hall, light spills yellow out of the door to Gideon's office. When he looks around the doorjamb, he sees Reid sitting cross-legged on the floor in the center of the room. The rest of the room is empty. Garcia took what could be used to Goodwill and the rest is packed into boxes, lined up against the far wall of Aaron's office. There are chess pieces in two tidy piles by Reid's knee and he's setting the board gently on the floor with both hands, like he doesn't want to scratch it on the concrete.

He looks up at Aaron briefly, then returns his attention to setting up the game. It only takes a moment, less time than Aaron expects. When he's finished, he leans his elbow on his knee, sets his chin in his palm. His free hand moves a white pawn forward.

Aaron crouches on the other side of the board, catching Reid's wrist before he can touch his next piece. Up close, Aaron recognizes the board as Gideon's.

"Reid," he says, "Stop." Reid doesn't retract his hand immediately. It hovers between Aaron's fingers while he considers a moment of disobedience.

"We're supposed to play," Reid says. Aaron can't tell if he's using the contraction _we are_ or if Reid's exhaustion is slurring his speech: _we were_.

Reid's hand drops to his lap and Aaron settles his weight onto his heels. He has learned the use of patience and the power of silence between two people. Contrary to how it may appear, Reid knows his social cues. It's obscured by the fact that his small talk is another man's lecture, but Aaron knows that all he has to do is wait.

"The algebraic notation system in chess includes punctuation for indicating the quality of a move," Reid says eventually, "Good, bad, interesting. Completely subjective, of course. A blunder by an expert may only be marked a mistake by an amateur." He raises his chin to his fingers, meeting Aaron's eyes across the board.

"Dubious," he adds after a moment. "And a dubious move might be brilliant in the context of the finished game. The point is, you don't know."

When Aaron doesn't reply, Reid clears his throat, dropping his eyes back to the board. He reaches one finger out to rest on top of the black king and topples it over backward. It clatters against the concrete.

They stop so Aaron can grab his bag, turn off the lights and lock the doors behind him. Reid follows him to his car and climbs into the passenger side while Aaron slings his bag into the trunk. By the time he settles into the front seat and turns the car on, Reid is already asleep.

They leave the chessboard on the floor.


End file.
